Moments
by Tahimikamaxtli
Summary: A collection of the very short drabbles that I post on my Tumblr over on @tahimikamaxtli.
1. Sweet Tooth

Sweet Tooth:

He did not expect her lips to taste as sweet as they did; after all, she usually smelled like spent gunpowder and burnt metal, not…

Was it vanilla? Maybe hazelnut – or perhaps even bubblegum or cotton candy?

He could not tell; he had never had much of a sweet tooth, so the different types of candies that were sold on Zaun's street-corners were still somewhat unknown to him. Sure, he would chew the occasional piece of gum when he was hungry to ease some of the pain, but he could never much stand just how quickly it lost its flavor. Not to mention that candy was more than a luxury, and his parents were far more concerned with putting real food on the table before they started spending their hard-earned money on sweets. But at that moment, he was not thinking of candy; he was thinking only about how unfairly soft her lips were, and how sweet she tasted when she ran the tip of her tongue playfully along his teeth.

Strangely, it was he who pulled away first to catch his breath, and she let her lips linger on his for as long as she could. She kept her eyes closed for a moment as they leaned away from each other, the lights of Zaun flashing around them and illuminating her blue hair so that it shone like neon. Slowly, she opened her eyes to look at him, and he was surprised to see that for what could have been the first time ever since he had known her, there was no manic gleam in the pink depths. Instead, she looked almost shy, and her pale fingers rose to touch her own lips gingerly.

"Did it taste sweet for you too?" she asked uncertainly, and her restless fingers began to nervously twirl a long strand of her blue hair.

Ekko nodded, and Jinx giggled.


	2. Thorns

Thorns:

As he drew nearer to her, he realized – much to his surprise – that she was wearing a faint flowery perfume. But unlike the countless other noblewomen with whom he had been forced to mingle with before, she did not overdo it; her scent was subtle, as sensual as a lotus blossom, and yet still as sharp as a rose's thorns. Deadly. Beautiful.

Just like her.


	3. Ashes to Ashes

Ashes to Ashes:

Yasuo watched – more than a little curious – as his travelling companion lingered by the edge of their now long since extinguished campfire. Though it was still very early in the morning, by the pale light of the distant sunrise, he could just make out the blurry outline of Riven's form as she paced slowly around what was now little more than a pile of ashes. Though he had opened his mouth to speak – to tell her that they really needed to get a move on if they wanted to make good time – there was something in her movements that gave him pause, and the words died in his throat before he could voice them. Instead, he watched without speaking as she knelt down, dragging her fingers almost mechanically through the cold grey ashes that remained from the night before.

For a long while, she simply looked at her hand, rubbing her fingertips together thoughtfully as though still deciding what to do with them next. Her mouth was pressed into a thin line, and her red eyes had the perpetual faraway look that Yasuo had come to expect from her by now. Finally, it looked as though she had come to some decision, and she lifted her hand to her face. With a quick swipe of her thumb, she drew a short, pale mark over her left cheekbone, just below her eye. Once she had done so, she stood up slowly, wiping her dirty hand on her pants as she walked towards where Yasuo was waiting. Her face betrayed nothing, and she looked at him almost impatiently, as though it was he who had been holding them up.

Yasuo returned her questioning look, curious but still unsure whether it was in his place to ask; she had many small rituals that she always performed, but this was by far the strangest he had seen from her yet. She seemed to catch the meaning in his expression, and her red eyes hardened slightly as she did. After a moment, she looked away from him, turning instead to face in the direction of the rising sun.

"In Fury Company, we… after we burned our dead, we would always use their ashes in our war paint."

She paused, and though she glanced in his direction, it was clear to Yasuo that her eyes were focused on something that only she could see.

"It was a way to take them into battle with us. To honor their memory, and their sacrifice. To make them immortal after death. We believed that in battle, they would watch over us and protect us. I…"

Her voice trailed off quietly, and there was an unreadable expression on her face – somewhere between regret and grief. She opened her mouth to speak again, but seemed to catch herself; after a few more moments of heavy silence had passed, she simply turned her back on Yasuo and set off without another word of explanation. He made sure to wait some time before walking after her, leading Raion slowly by the reins as he followed Riven's silhouette into the misty morning.


	4. Coffee and Blackberries, Part I

Coffee and Blackberries, Part I:

If she had to place it, she would probably say that he tasted like the harsh black coffee that Noxus was so famous for: more than just a little bitter, with only the faintest hint of sweetness at the very end; it was a flavor that had taken her quite a bit of getting used to, but now that she had, she found a strange appeal in the unexpected richness of his lips – in the peculiar sweetness that came only from an acquired taste.

And in the dead of night – where he always tasted the sweetest – it was no different.


	5. Coffee and Blackberries, Part II

Coffee and Blackberries, Part II:

If he had to place it, he would probably say that she tasted like the wild blackberries that grew only in Demacian forests: sweet like honeyed wine, but still with a faint sourness that lingered long on the back of his tongue; it was a flavor that he had always found too saccharine for his tastes when he was younger, but her lips were like ripened fruit – swollen with a headiness like ambrosia that he now knew he would never have enough of.

And in the early morning – where she always tasted the sweetest – it was no different.


	6. First Impressions

First Impressions:

"Lady Eagleheart, a moment?"

Someone calls my name from behind me, and I cannot help but wince at the sound. I still have yet to get used to my new title, and I have never been overly of the name that the Demacian military brass crafted for me when I first joined the ranks of the Elite Rangers; it sounds ridiculous, as though it were something out of a fairytale – not at all suited for a simple farmgirl like myself. I turn sharply on my heel, my admonition already halfway out my lips, but the rest of the words die in my throat as I recognize the figure of the one who called my name.

Prince Jarvan Lightshield the Fourth is walking towards me from down the hall with long, confident strides. At his side is the head of his personal guard – and if the whispered rumors that dance along the darker corners of Goldlight Castle are to be believed, his consort – the Half-Dragon, Shyvana. Her height rivals that of the prince, and her expression is simultaneously fearsome and unforgiving. Her skin is a dark, primal blue unlike any shade I have ever, and it seems to harden into scales at places along her body. Her yellow eyes bore into mine with an intensity that makes me suddenly feel very small, as though I were a pigeon before a snake. I do not manage to hide another wince as Valor's talon's dig into my shoulder in an uncharacteristic show of nervousness from him; it is not like him to be afraid of strangers, but there is something in her eyes that is not completely human. I do not need to be a Seer to know that she is a seasoned, brutal warrior – it is obvious in the way she holds herself, as much as in the pale scars that decorate her skin like medals of honor. In an effort to quell my own growing nervousness, I look away from her and to the Crown Prince instead.

He is not at all what I expect; even for a Demacian, he is only some inches taller than average – if even that. But he carries himself with a confidence that comes not only from years of being trained to lead, but also from what I can only pinpoint as lineage – he has all the look of a proper prince of Demacia. His eyes – the eyes that have sparked so many hushed tavern conversations – are a piercing blue, and I feel as though with them he can see right through me. Though it seems genuine enough, the easy smile on his lips does not quite reach the corners of his eyes.

He is closer to me now than I ever imagined any member of royalty would ever be, and I realize – with a sting of uncomfortable embarrassment – that he is far handsomer than the stories do him justice. His features are strong and well-defined, and I find my eyes unconsciously tracing the outline of his jaw. I can feel an uneasy fluttering deep in the pit of my stomach, and I swallow nervously. It takes me several more moments – several moments of me outright staring at Jarvan as I feel my cheeks begin to heat in open embarrassment – before I remember my manners at last. Dropping hastily to one knee so quickly that it collides painfully with the stone floor and Valor squawks in annoyance at the sudden movement, I incline my head.

"Y- your Grace," I stammer without looking up at him, even as my knee begins to smart. "Forgive me, I did not see…

He laughs dismissively, the sound loud and assured, and my cheeks burn even hotter.

"There is no need to bow, Lady Eagleheart," he says easily. "I would prefer to keep this informal for the time being."

My knee stings in protest as I rise awkwardly, and Valor ruffles his wings crossly in an attempt to keep his balance on my shoulder.

"Forgive me- my asking," I manage somehow; for the thousandth time, I wish with all my heart that I found speaking as easy as I find writing. "Keep w- what informal exactly?"

"I have a mission for you," he begins, but he does not get very far beyond that.

"Not here, Jarvan. Somewhere quieter," cuts in Shyvana sharply, and I am shocked to hear that she addresses him so casually by his first name; even as a farmgirl, I understand the conventions of high society. Her voice is husky and low, and for some strange reason, it reminds me unwittingly of campfire smoke. She has placed an almost restraining hand on his shoulder, and I am even more shocked that – member of the Royal Guard or not – anyone who is not of royal blood can touch the prince as intimately as she does.

Jarvan, however, seems to find nothing odd about the contact, and he glances at her with a nod of agreement before turning back to me.

"Of course. My mistake," he says evenly. "I expect to see you in my quarters at 10 o'clock sharp this evening, Lady Eagleheart. I shall brief you then on what I expect of you in these coming weeks."

Still no wiser than I was before he hailed me, I nod stupidly; it is all I can do, forgetting to salute even as he walks away with Shyvana at his heels.


	7. Bad Cop

Bad Cop:

The pink-haired woman plucked the lollipop out from between her teeth as she leaned forward across the table, planting her elbows firmly on the polished steel surface. The candy dangled with an almost inviting innocence from her fingers as she cracked her knuckles loudly.

"Y' know how 'n cop shows there're always those two cops? Th' ones who pull th' 'good cop, bad cop' routine?"

The suspect – a hapless, low-level runner for a drug ring that had recently been the cause of quite a headache for Piltover's Finest – looked up at her in fear, not quite totally able to hide the nervous trembling of his lips. He could not have been older than 19, and his green eyes were wide with fear. He glanced almost pleadingly over her shoulder at where Caitlyn was sitting in a chair of her own, but the Sheriff's expression was stony, and her face betrayed no pity.

Without warning, Vi slammed her hands down onto the table, and the unfortunate youth jumped in his chair at the sound, his attention snapping back to her. A wicked grin spread slowly from one ear to the other, and her blue eyes flashed dangerously.

"Want t' guess which one I am?"


	8. Balance

Balance:

It was the duty of the Eye of Twilight to be impartial.

Emotions simply clouded one's judgment, and they did little beyond complicate the execution of that which had to be done; hesitation was the seed of defeat, and to fail in the duties of the Eye of Twilight was to bring destruction upon all of Runeterra. As such, allowing his emotions to get the better of him was not an option for Shen.

It was something that he had already told himself a thousand times before – a mantra that he had repeated every single time he swung his blade. He had already kept his passions reined in countless times before, and now was no different: when he had disagreed with his father's decision to spare the life of Khada Jhin all those years ago; when he had saved what remained of the butchered Kinkou rather than confront his fallen brother; when he had allowed the youngest woman in the Kinkou's history to take on the mantle of the Fist of Shadow, despite the knowledge of her feelings for him.

It was a lesson that had begun long ago with his father's teachings, and now – years after Master Kusho's death – it was one that Shen felt as though he was still learning. He was unsure whether he would ever fully understand it, and not for the first time, he wished that his father was still alive to guide him. He did not know how any one man – no matter how that man may try – could ever hope to cut away his emotions entirely; they were what made one human, and the closest, he thought, he had come to ever meeting a man like that was the Golden Demon.

And that creature was no man at all – just a monster who wore the face of one like a theater mask.

Shen opened his eyes slowly, and his steady gaze settled easily on the two figures sparring some distance away. Though they were little more than silhouettes against the warm glow of the setting sun, he watched as they flitted quickly like shadows in the dying light. A warm wind blew suddenly through the clearing, and Shen caught the faint smell of peppermint dancing on the summer breeze. As he inhaled, Akali and Kennen fell down suddenly onto the grass, laughing loudly at something he could not make out. The sound of her laughter carried, and it was a pleasant one – sharp and clear like wind chimes – and Shen's fingers tightened almost painfully around his knees.

He closed his eyes quickly once more, trying to ignore the quick fluttering buried deep within the pit of his stomach.

 _Balance – above all else._


	9. Little Shark

Little Shark:

"Mako."

Riven opened her eyes, caught off guard by the sudden sound of Yasuo's voice; he had spoken without warning, and she tilted her head back slightly to look up at him. His storm-grey eyes were still fixed on the horizon, and the tip of his nose was slightly pink.

The two of them sat the edge of a tall cliff, Riven resting comfortably against Yasuo's chest with his arms wrapped securely around her waist. Before them, the setting sun cast strange lights that danced on the bright sea with all the colors of fireworks.

"Mako," he repeated. "That was my name before. It means 'little shark.'"

He looked down at her momentarily, then quickly back up at the sea – as though he were embarrassed.

"We lived near the sea when I was young. My father was a fisherman, and he would go out early every morning to catch fish. Apparently, on the day I was born, he had spent the entire afternoon wrestling with a shark that was bigger than any he had caught before. It fed my mother for the weeks after I was born, so they thought that the name fit."

Riven mouthed the word several times, testing how the sound rolled around her tongue. But it seemed so strange, as though it belonged to a foreigner – and not at all like the man she had fallen in love with.

"It's a nice name," she admitted finally, closing her eyes and settling herself comfortably against him once more. "But I think I like my Yasuo better."

Yasuo smiled after a moment, kissing the top of her head softly. His right hand rose to settle protectively over the gentle swell of her stomach as he breathed in the relaxing familiarity of her smell.

"Yeah, so do I."


	10. Symphony

Symphony:

The man in the mask settled against the cold stone of the building like a shadow, unseen and unheard. With the practiced, languid ease of a dancer, he fit the pieces of his rifle together with a symphony of satisfying clicks. He exhaled slowly, and his breath echoed in the confines of his mask as he counted each one of his slow heartbeats.

 _One, two, three, four…_

Settling the rifle securely against his right shoulder, he tilted his head slightly to look down the sights. Quietly – contentedly – he began to hum a tune, and the words to the song blossomed like bright blooming flowers in the beautiful darkness of his mind.

 _A coat of gold, a coat of red, the lion still has claws…_


	11. Strange Love

Strange Love:

Syndra stood with her back to Zed, determined not to turn around and face him. Her hands were clenched into tight fists at her sides in an effort to hide the trembling in her arms, and her nails cut painfully into her palms. She could feel the blood beginning to pool between her fingers as she glared sightlessly at a point in the floor below her feet.

"Just _go_ , then," she spat with as much venom as she could muster; her eyes were burning and her chest felt as though it were caught in an iron vice, but she did not let her voice waver.

"Syndra…" began Zed, but she did not want to hear it for a second longer – she had had enough of his excuses and of his leaving her in the middle of the night without saying a word.

"I said _go_!" she shouted, spinning around to face him in her fury. Dark spheres were beginning to coalesce in the space around her, and they quivered restlessly in the air. Zed's eyes flicked to them, and a quick flash of wariness crossed his face.

"If your damn Order means so much, then just go! If it-" She swallowed, and the pain in her chest was suddenly piercingly sharp, cutting off the breath in her lungs like ice. "If it- it means more to you than me, then…"

Zed said nothing, and for a fleeting moment where her heart soared foolishly, Syndra thought his silence was hesitation. But then his expression hardened, and though she could not see it, she felt him straighten. Without another word, he gathered what remained of his things and disappeared through the open door with no more sound than a rustle of wind. He did not spare her so much as a final glance before he was gone, leaving nothing but a hollow, painful silence in his wake that threatened to swallow her whole.

Syndra swayed where she stood before she finally collapsed onto the floor, her back leaning against the bed for support. Her shoulders trembled like leaves as she sobbed quietly into her hands.


	12. Mornings in Ionia

Mornings in Ionia:

Riven stood in the middle of the kitchen, a wooden spoon clenched securely between her teeth as she busied herself with tying her white hair back into a messy ponytail. It had been some time since she had last cut her hair, and it was much longer now than what she was used to; she found herself constantly having to brush it out of her face, and she resolved to cut it again as soon as possible. She let her hands fall once she had finished, plucking the spoon out from between her teeth and twirling it idly in her right hand as she waited for that morning's soup to cook. She hummed an old Noxian war tune under her breath as she did, tapping the spoon thoughtlessly against the counter in time with the rhythm.

Some paces away, Yasuo leaned against the open doorway with his arms crossed and his hair down, admiring the thousand different ways the morning light shone off her tan skin and the myriad of ways it danced along her hair. He watched her in silence for several minutes, content simply to watch her and listen to the quiet sound of her humming – a sound that reminded him of their time travelling together. After another peaceful minute or two, she seemed to finally realize that she was not alone, and she looked over at Yasuo. She stopped her humming, and the perpetual frown of hers turned down the edges of her mouth as the two of them looked at each other without speaking.

" _What_?" she asked shortly, breaking the silence at last.

"What?" he repeated.

"You were staring."

"No, I wasn't."

"Yes, you were."

"No, I wasn't."

Riven rolled her eyes in exasperation, turning her attention back to her now gently bubbling soup.

"Ionians," she muttered under her breath, trying her best to fight the small smile she could feel tugging playfully at her lips.


	13. Father's Day

Father's Day:

It was dark and quiet in the hallways of the Du Couteau mansion, the only sound that of a soft, paper-like rustling, as though something were gliding gracefully across the smooth marble floors. The dark wood doors to the library opened and then closed again quickly, returning the room to darkness. After a moment, a spot of light flared up, and the snake-like face of Cassiopeia Du Couteau appeared like a specter in the gloom, her rough skin illuminated by the dim glow of a hextech lamp. She looked uncharacteristically nervous, and haltingly, she made her way to the large painted portrait that hung above the fireplace. The stern green eyes of Aramis Du Couteau glared down at her, and she squirmed slightly as she settled into a comfortable sitting position.

"Hi, Dad," she muttered quietly, and in that moment, Cassiopeia was not the monster that she had cursed herself into becoming – just a scared little girl who missed her father. "I'm sorry for not talking to you more," she said nervously, as though she still expected some sort of reprimand from the portrait. She swallowed. "But I- it's hard, and I m- miss you so much. We all miss you."

She glanced to the right of her father's portrait, where her sister's haughty painted features looked down at her as well.

"Kat misses you too, even though she never says so. She doesn't show it, but I know she's afraid that she'll let you down one way or the other. Talon, too."

Cassiopeia pressed her lips together, trying to ignore the sharp stinging in her throat. Neither one of her sibling had yet to accept the fact that she knew deep down to be true – that their father was never coming home. Cassiopeia knew that in their own way, they were grieving: Katarina with her absolute disregard for all affairs concerning the Du Couteau estate, as though she still expected their father to stroll back in one day and pick them up where he had left them; Talon with his unrelenting pursuit as to any clue of his whereabouts, as though he still expected to find the answer that he wanted; and all of them pretending as though if their father returned, then all their problems would go away and they could be a family again.

But Cassiopeia knew better.

She reached into her robe, carefully removing a lotus blossom that she had cut from the gardens outside. Cupping it gently in her hands, she kissed it softly before placing it on the mantelpiece, just below her father's portrait. Then she looked up at him one last time, her eyes bright with tears.

"Happy Father's Day, Daddy. I love you."


	14. Warmth

Warmth:

It was raining, and though they had found temporary shelter for the night in an abandoned shack, the damp winds still found their way through the many holes in the rotted wood of the walls. Shyvana sat in one corner of the single room, wrapped tightly in her thin travelling cloak and trying her best to hide her shivering. Her eyes were closed, and her lips were an even paler blue than usual. Jarvan sat against the wall in the opposite corner, his blue eyes slightly narrowed as he looked at his companion; though he had insisted, she had adamantly refused to take their only blanket for herself. Out of sight, his hand clenched and unclenched into a fist in a futile effort to bring some feeling back into his fingers. At the same time, the muscles of his jaw worked restlessly as he looked at Shyvana's trembling form – partly from the cold, and partly from the effort of holding back the words he wanted to say to her.

For several minutes, the only sound was the low howl of the wind as he mustered up the courage to speak to her. They had spent long enough in one another's company by now that Jarvan knew all too well how she reacted to any comments that even came close to insinuating that she was weak or otherwise uncomfortable. And had they been in any other situation, he would have kept quiet and let her agonize in her own stubbornness; but it was bitterly cold in the shack, and he could not sit by any longer and watch her suffer.

Straightening slightly, he cleared his throat. Shyvana shifted at the sound, and she opened her eyes a fraction.

"Why don't you come over and get warm with me?"

He had spoken somewhat quickly, as he wanted to get his words out before he lost his nerve, but he winced nevertheless as they left his mouth – he probably could have worded them better.

Shyvana looked at him sharply, her yellow eyes flashing at the implication that he was not totally able to avoid.

"Wh- what did you say?"

Her voice was almost a growl, and her eyes narrowed dangerously.

"We'll be warmer if we're closer together," he said, determined not to break eye contact with her. "Trust me."

"I already t- told you," she snapped angrily, though her teeth chattered traitorously around her words. "I don't n- need your pity."

"Don't be stupid," shot back Jarvan in irritation, his pent-up frustration with her from the past few weeks breaking through momentarily despite his efforts to hold it back. "It's cold, and you'll freeze to death in that rag you call a cloak. You said so yourself – it's too cold and wet for you to make any fire. And I'm not about to let you freeze to death because you're too damn stubborn to admit that you're cold."

Shyvana opened her mouth angrily to retort, but realized after a second that she could not come up with a response; he was right, after all – it was too cold and damp for her to conjure fire, without even beginning to consider the fact that they were both hungry, sleep-deprived, and exhausted from that day's travels. And she had spent enough nights as a child huddled up with her father to know the benefit of sharing another's body heat. But Jarvan was not her father, and no matter how hard he tried to make her feel welcome among his men, she knew that to him – and to them – she was still a stranger.

And a monster.

Had the two of them not gotten separated from the rest of his companions, she knew that it would never have crossed his mind to offer the same to her in their presence. He was kind, she admitted that much – the kindest human she had ever encountered, and the first to truly look beyond her physical appearance – but he was still a human. Soon, she knew, the time would come where he would inevitably have to make the choice between considering her a companion and returning to human civilization. But as it stood, she was almost numb with cold underneath her meager cloak, and the promise of warmth was inviting. Exhaling heatedly, she blew fruitlessly into her hands in an attempt to warm them before conceding that he was likely right about her freezing to death in the night.

Begrudgingly, she shuffled over to where Jarvan sat, all the while keeping a wary eye on him. Once she was close enough, he lifted the blanket momentarily to allow her in. As soon as she was covered, she turned away from him and curled up into a ball to avoid as much contact with him as she could; just because she had agreed to it did not mean she was about to give him any sense of victory. Resting her head against the cold wood of the floor, she closed her eyes and tried to ignore the unwelcome flutter of heat in the pit of her stomach. He was close enough so that she was thankfully beginning to feel just a little bit warmer, but he seemed to understand her reluctance, and he moved no closer to her.

"If you t- try anything in the night, I swear I'll rip it off and feed it to the w- wolves outside," she growled warningly through clenched teeth – just so he knew.

She heard him snort, and he shifted slightly so that his back also faced hers.

"Believe me, I know you would."

Shyvana scoffed under her breath, and with that reassurance, settled herself as best she could to sleep, determined to make this the only time she ever agreed to one of his suggestions.

But when they finally separated the next morning, much closer together than they had been when they had fallen asleep, she would not admit aloud – nor even to herself – that it had been somewhat reassuring to wake with his warmth beside her.


	15. Duet

Duet:

"My dear, you're trembling," came the voice out of the darkness, mocking in how concerned it almost sounded. "You're not afraid of me, are you?"

His voice was faintly muffled by his damned mask, but she could just barely detect the hint of an Ionian accent from one of the many southern provinces – an important detail to remember for later, _if_ she made it out alive tonight.

"I've dealt with far worse things than a freak in a theater costume," spat Vayne acidly in response.

But even as she said it, her side gave another deep throb of pain, and she hissed a quiet breath through clenched teeth. Even she had to admit it, he was a damn good shot, and if her suspicions were right – as they usually turned out to be – he had imbued his bullet with some sort of twisted magic. Her whole left side was a single mass of pain, and a numbing cold was already beginning to spread like ice. The fingers of her right hand were slick with her own blood, but she consoled herself with the fact that she knew she had landed some shots of her own. Silently, she reloaded her crossbow.

The masked man chuckled, and in the quiet, she heard the loud click of his own gun reloading.

"You're lucky I'm on a payroll," came the voice again. "I've killed for far less than that."

"I'll bet you have," growled Vayne, beginning to inch her way backward towards the open window behind her. "People like you are all the same."

She heard him inhale sharply in anger, and with a grim sort of satisfaction, she knew she had finally struck a nerve.

"There is _no one_ else like me," he said heatedly, and his voice was quick with emotion. "My art is without parallel. I am without equal. I am-"

"You're no artist," she snarled, cutting him off as she felt the edge of the window press against her back. "You're just a sad little man who's too afraid to show his face. So afraid of failure that you hide behind your toys and your mask."

His inhuman roar of rage was drowned out by the sound of his gun firing, but Vayne had already tumbled backwards so that the bullet struck the window instead. The glass shattered into a million shards that hovered momentarily in the air, sparkling like diamonds in the moonlight before she plunged several stories into the frigid waters below.


	16. Hesitation

Hesitation:

The night was bitterly cold and windy, as though it knew her intentions and sought to give her pause. Mournful winds clawed at the walls, and chilly drafts blew around her ankles. Unable to stop herself, she glanced back over her shoulder at his sleeping form; she was grateful that the howling winds had hidden the sound of her gathering her things – it would not do to wake him. He looked as much at peace as he could in his slumber, with his wild, dark hair loose like spilled ink on the bedsheets they had shared. She felt a sharp sting deep in her chest at the sight of him, but she had already steeled her resolve against any such weakness; she _needed_ to do this – as much for him as for herself. Pulling her cloak securely over her ashen hair, she stepped to the open door. Her fingered lingered on the handle, and the hesitation that she so desperately wished would vanished stayed her hand for just a few moments more. She stared intently at the inside of the door for a long while before she closed her eyes, biting her bottom lip as she pressed her forehead against the cool wood.

"I'll be back," whispered Riven. "I promise."

Then she shut the door behind her and was gone.


	17. Exposed

Exposed:

Jayce had never wondered why she always seemed to wear gloves, opting to do so even during the times few and far between where she went without her signature gauntlets; he had always thought gloves so fundamentally _Vi_ that for the longest time – to his embarrassment – it never occurred to him that she may have had something that she wanted to hide.

He very well may have remained blissfully unaware of such a fact for as long as he knew her, had Caitlyn not rang him up late one night to ask his help in bringing her partner home after an evening out on the town. Vi was very, _very_ drunk, and Caitlyn looked genuinely very, very sorry for what she was asking of him. It took the two of them nearly half an hour of not-so-gentle coaxing before they finally managed to get her out of the dive bar and into his Hexcar. Not to mention the other half an hour it took him to half-carry, half-drag her all the way back up to her apartment. Her door was thankfully unlocked – a fact that did not exactly ease his wariness, as her apartment was in what could hardly be called a friendly part of town – and he nearly tripped over her dragging feet as he led her inside. To his frustration, she groaned loudly in complaint when he tried to turn on a light, so he was forced to stumble his way through her unsurprisingly messy apartment in the dark.

It was only when she was securely in her bed that he finally breathed a sigh of relief, and he almost missed the fact that she had taken off her gloves altogether. But as he caught sight of her bare hands for what was the first time, he felt his heart skip a beat – the skin of her fingers and palms was scarred, discolored in places from what he knew from experience could only be chemical burns. It perhaps should not have surprised him, but this unexpected revelation made him feel strangely uncomfortable – as though he were suddenly and unwelcomingly privy to a moment of weakness that no one but her had any right to. The full impact of her undeniably Zaunite upbringing had never fully struck him until that very moment, and as he looked at her sleeping figure – curled up into an almost fetal position – he realized just how little he truly knew about her.


	18. Hard Knocks

Hard Knocks:

Jayce stumbled backwards with a half-muffled grunt, tripping over his own feet and only just managing to catch himself on the ropes of the boxing ring before he fell over. His heart was thudding heavily in his chest from exertion, and he used the brief but welcome reprieve from the flurry of fists he had endured to try to catch his breath. The inside of his head was ringing like a boxing bell, and spots of light danced before his eyes like fireworks. The right side of his face throbbed dully with pain, and his head was swimming from lack of oxygen. Gingerly, he felt along his right cheek with a gloved hand, rolling his jaw to make sure that everything was still in one piece; he seemed to have bitten the inside of his cheek, and though he could taste the metallic grit of his own blood, that seemed to be the extent of the damage.

Spitting out what he could to one side, he wiped his mouth with the back of his glove before readjusting his mouth-guard and looking back up at the figure standing confidently over him. Vi was dressed in red boxing shorts and a black sports bra, hopping nimbly from one foot to the other and looking no more tired than she would had she been taking a leisurely stroll in the park. Her skin was shiny with sweat, and she blew a stray strand of her pink hair out of her face; had Jayce not been on the receiving end of her merciless fists for the past hour, he would have found the sight of her unsurprisingly muscular body even more unfairly attractive than he already did. It was already distracting enough for him to keep focused on where her hands were when he could see almost every movement her body made beneath her clothes.

"Don't tell me y'done already, Pretty Boy," she laughed loudly, cutting through his wandering thoughts like a freight train. "We only jus' got warmed up!"

"Just catching my breath," he countered as smoothly as he could with a mouth-guard between his teeth.

"There's no catching y'breath in'a _real_ fight," she shot back with a wicked grin. "And I promised Cupcake that I would toughen y'up, so get up 'fore I string up you up by y'own gloves."

Jayce groaned into his mouth-guard.

Though it was true that Caitlyn had asked for Vi's assistance in helping whip Jayce into shape after he had suffered a particularly nasty beating at the hands of some street thugs who had caught him off-guard – after all, he _did_ have an image to maintain as the steadfast Defender of Tomorrow – he thought that he was far from as helpless as Vi made him out to be; he had been a dedicated swimmer and water-polo player during his time in college, and even now, he always exercised whenever he had the time.

In the back of his mind, he supposed that he should be grateful for her help, given that Vi was the best hand-to-hand fighter he had ever seen. But after his first week in the "Vi School of Hard Knocks," as she put it, he was beginning to have a sneaking suspicion that she was doing this mainly for her own amusement, and to have an excuse to punch him repeatedly in the face as hard as she could.

"Are you sure you're not just using that as an excuse to use my face as your own personal punching bag?" he asked, squinting up at her through the only eye of his that was not yet swollen shut.

"Whatever gave y'that idea, Sweet Cheeks?" she replied as she flashed another deviously innocent grin, her own face still unmarked by Jayce's flailing fists. "Now put 'em back up – I'm not done with y' by a long shot."

Jayce sighed as he pulled himself back to his feet; he could already feel his right cheek throbbing in anticipation of even more pain.


	19. Executioner

Executioner:

The bedroom smelled like smoke and sex.

The only source of light came from the nighttime Piltover skyline, which pulsed regularly just outside the window as though in time with some unseen heartbeat. Two figures rested against the tall headboard of the bed, their forms little more than silhouettes against the darkness of the night.

Vi sat with the covers drawn tight up over her bare chest, arms wrapped around the tops of her knees as she leaned forward slightly. There was a cigarette between her lips, and the tip burned a bright red that was sharp against the darkness as she inhaled deeply. She held the smoke in her lungs for several seconds before she exhaled it finally as a long silver coil that shimmered in the dull glow of the lights outside.

To her right, Jayce leaned back against arms that were folded behind his head, watching Vi as she plucked the cigarette from her lips and held it loosely in her fingers. His eyes traced the curves of her back – broad and muscled – down to the points of her shoulder blades. There, his gaze settled on the word tattooed across her nape: EXECUTIONER.

Leaning forward slightly, he slipped his left hand out from behind his head and ran it up her back, garnering a slight shiver from her as he followed the line of her spine.

"What's this about?" he asked quietly, tracing the word in question with his fingertip.

Vi glanced back at him, taking another long drag from her cigarette.

"Y'really want t'know?" she asked, and her words came out cloaked in smoke.

"Only if you're okay with telling me."

He was relieved to see the beginnings of her signature smirk growing at the corners of her lips before she turned her head away.

"Y'know my gauntlets?"

Jayce nodded absentmindedly, aware that she could not see him, but knowing that she would continue regardless of whether or not she had.

"Well, I named 'em both: the left one's 'Judge,' the right one's 'Jury,' and I'm-"

"-the executioner," finished Jayce, and a smile of his own curled the ends of his mouth at the simple, unmistakably Vi humor of it all. She looked back at him, and her grin was wicked.

"Bingo."


	20. Claustrophobia

Claustrophobia:

It was early in the morning – early enough so that it was still dark in her bedroom – but Syndra had not slept at all the past night. Even with the surprisingly comfortable warmth of Zed at her side, she had been woefully unable to sleep for more than a few minutes at a time; whenever she closed her eyes, it was as though the darkness of her own mind was trying to suffocate her. Each time she tried, she would feel again as though she was being smothered by some invisible weight pressing against her nose and mouth, and she would invariably jerk back awake with her hands reaching desperately for her throat just to make sure that she could still breathe.

She was no stranger to these panic attacks – after all, they had plagued her from her very first day in the Celestial Fortress all those years ago – but never had they been quite so severe; it was a wonder that she had not woken Zed at all during the past hours, given how much and how fretfully she had been tossing and turning. His presence – which so many times had acted as a balm that eased her worries – seemed today unable to dispel the dark clouds of anxiety that loomed over her.

Already, she could feel dread gathering like smoke on the inside of her chest. There, it congealed into an icy fear that seemed to take up all the space in her breast, making it hard to breathe evenly. She knew that as soon as he woke, Zed would leave, and she would be alone with her thoughts once more. And despite herself, she quailed at the prospect of spending another day left by herself in her lonely castle.

As though he had been privy to her thoughts, she felt the weight of Zed's body shift almost imperceptibly as he roused himself suddenly. She knew that he was readying himself to leave the same way he always did – before she woke and before she could protest. Today was different, however, and no sooner had he sat up than she reached out a slightly-trembling hand to hold him by the wrist. Her thin fingers did not even wrap around the entirety of his forearm, but she still held on as tightly as she could.

"Don't go," she pleaded, for once not caring about just how shaky her voice was. "Stay with me. _Please_." She swallowed hard. "For just a little longer."

She felt Zed stiffen beneath her fingers, and he did not so much as turn to look at her. Her heartbeat redoubled itself in panic at his silence, and she bit back a desperate cry of fear.

" _Please_ ," she repeated, this time far more urgently than before. "Don't leave me again."

Her tone was enough to make him glance at her over his shoulder, and for a moment, he could not hide his surprise at her appearance; there were dark bags of exhaustion beneath her eyes, and she was biting her shaking lip to stop herself from sobbing aloud.

For a terrible moment, Syndra thought he was going to pull his hand out of her grip – in fact, she fully expected him to. But then he lay back down on the bed, gently peeling Syndra's fingers from around his wrist so that he could kiss the tips of them one-by-one. Slowly, he drew the covers back over the two of them, and Syndra nearly cried aloud with happiness.

Pressing her face desperately into his chest to hide her tears, she inhaled shakily, trying to breathe in as much of him as she could. He did not say a word as she began to sob openly into his chest, instead choosing to wrap his arms protectively around her so as to pull her even closer to him. After a moment, he even pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her head with a tenderness he had never shown her before, and Syndra felt the knot of steel in her chest beginning to soften and unwind.

And suddenly, she could breathe again.


	21. Cutthroat

Cutthroat:

Garen sat as still as he could manage against the cool wood of the chair, careful to keep his breathing as level as possible; it was no easy task, given the coolness of the night air that nipped at his bare chest. All at once, he felt a movement in the space just behind his right ear, and he caught the faint whiff of flowers as slender fingers ran suddenly down the back of his shoulders. The hairs rose unwillingly on his nape as he felt the tip of a sharp nail scratch a path down his spine.

"Scared, Crownguard?" breathed a husky voice out of the darkness, and the soft kiss of the words tickled the skin of his neck.

"Not at all," he murmured in reply, careful to keep his jaw from moving as much as possible; he could still feel the unmistakable edge of a knife drag up and down the side of his throat.

Katarina chuckled darkly, and he felt the heat of her breath flutter against his nape again like a summer breeze. She was no more than a shadow in the dim light of the bedroom, and he caught a flicker of red hair as she circled around him. With a sudden, sinuous movement reminiscent of that of a jungle cat, she dropped heavily onto his lap and straddled his hips possessively. Garen stifled a grunt as she settled against him leisurely, the skin of her bare thighs rubbing against his abdomen teasingly.

Though she wore only a lacy red bra and an equally as provocative pair of lacy black underwear, Garen made sure to look up into her eyes; in the dark, they sparkled like emeralds with a downright lethal mischievousness. He was careful not to resist as she took hold of his chin with her left hand and forced his head back roughly. There was a long knife in her other hand, and she raised it to drag the point up his throat. Her rose-painted lips parted slightly as she breathed out a low chuckle, baring her teeth like fangs.

" _Liar_ ," she teased, following the path of his jugular vein with the very tip of the knife so that it drew only the thinnest line of blood. "I can hear your heartbeat from here."

"Is that so?" he muttered, and he felt the edge of the knife press dangerously into his Adam's apple as he spoke. Slowly, he ran his own hand up the smooth skin of the leg wrapped around him before reaching around her slender waist. There, it settled against the small of her back, and he felt her shiver beneath his fingertips as he pulled her ever closer. Undoing the latch of her bra with one hand, he pressed a feathery kiss to the very top of her left breast as her bra slipped down her form. He felt her breasts quiver breathlessly as he did, and he caught the sound of her soft gasp as he trailed his teeth over her skin.

"And what exactly is it telling you?"


	22. Blossoms

Blossoms:

Zed sulked moodily beneath the shadow of a nearby tree, safely hidden from the glare of the afternoon sunlight that prickled torturously along his skin. Despite the heat, he still wore a plain mask over the lower half of his face, and his wandering red eyes fell once more on the figure that knelt some distance in front of him, more than occupied by her garden.

Syndra wore a large, wide-brimmed straw hat to guard against the sunlight, and her pale purple sundress fluttered around her bare ankles. Her slender fingers were red from handling rough vines, and her usually immaculate were dark with dirt. Zed had spent the greater part of the morning watching her as she worked, openly fascinated by the way she tended to her flowers – gentle and precise, despite her blindness. She wielded a pair of gardening shears expertly, and she would run fingers meticulously over each individual flower; she would search for minutes at a time for any imperfections to remove before she was satisfied enough to move on to the next flower. It was almost unnerving to see her so engaged by something as seemingly mundane as gardening, but she had admitted to him – somewhat sheepishly – that it was one of the few hobbies that she truly enjoyed. And as Zed watched her – watched as her face would break into momentary, apparently involuntary expressions of happiness – he felt no need to do anything but sit in as nonjudgmental a silence as he could manage. Though he roused himself somewhat as she suddenly sat up, wiping her brow with the back of her hand she exhaled heavily.

Leaning back slightly, Syndra brushed her fingertips gently over the feathery surface of one of the petals, as though appraising her handiwork.

"How do they look?" she asked finally, turning her head in his direction.

After a heartbeat, Zed's eyes trailed away from the flowers she was referring to altogether, moving instead up the slender outline of her arm and to where her face was framed by the sunlight. Her teeth were showing an expectant, almost child-like smile, and the bridge of her nose was colored a faint pink from the sun. Clearing his throat quietly, he shifted where he sat, and his Shadow rippled like a lake's surface disturbed as he looked at her.

"Beautiful."


	23. Queen's Right

Queen's Right:

Her Kingdom was their bedroom – his hips the seat of her throne and his burning fingers her loyal subjects. It was one she would never relinquish now that she had claimed it for her own with clawing tooth and nails that marked her Queen's Right. The blizzard inside of her had cooled him and tamed him, until his low muttered curses against her icy skin were now the contented growl of some chained beast. And she demanded now – as a Queen does – with pale fingers tangled madly in the mane of dark hair that tickled at her inner thighs. His tongue followed her breathless commands until she cried out her assent, half-closing her eyes as she writhed desperate hips against the heat of his mouth. And when the rest of him followed the touch of his lips and his fingers, she straddled him regally and crowned him her King with quivering, kissing gasps against his temple.


	24. Birdcage

Birdcage:

Quinn's lungs were burning.

It was as though a thousand red-hot needles were stabbing into her lungs, her feet pounding painfully against the hard stone streets as she wove her way desperately through the back-alleys of Noxus. The black walls were suffocating, and they rose like the walls of a tomb around her. Her breath came in quick pants, and she exhaled sharply as she turned a corner too fast, losing her balance and colliding painfully with a street vendor.

Ignoring his shouts of anger, she dragged herself to her feet and kept running; the Noxian assassin who chased her was as relentless as a wild boar, and he knew the streets of Noxus far better than she did. The only reason she was still alive was because – for now – she was faster. But her stamina was waning, and – though she did not dare look back over her shoulder – she knew he was right behind her. Her golden eyes glanced up in panic and desperation, searching desperately for any sign of light among the shadows of buildings.

Noxus was a maddening maze of claustrophobic streets and underground tunnels, and though Quinn hated enclosed spaces, they had served her well in her escape. If she could only get out of the city, she might stand a chance at getting away; Valor was somewhere nearby, and if she could get out into the open, she would have the advantage of range.

Her thoughts were interrupted as a shadow fell suddenly over her, and rough hands threw her violently against a nearby wall. Her vision went black for a heartbeat, and she collapsed, winded. A hooded shape towered over her, and she wheezed as ruthless fingers wrapped tightly around her throat, hauling her roughly to her feet.

Her vision swam dangerously, and she whimpered as the unmistakable tip of a knife dug painfully into the soft spot just below her ribs. Her hands swatted pathetically at his firm chest as he leaned in close. Though she could not make out his features amongst the shadows of his hood, his hot breath was surprisingly sweet against her face.

"You're fast, I'll give you that," he hissed, and he seemed slightly impressed. Madly, she thought it was unfair that he did not sound nearly as winded as she was. "But Noxus is a cage, _Demacian_. And little birds like you don't last very long in cages."

His fingers tightened like steel cables around her throat, and Quinn's vision grew dark. She closed her eyes, but not before she sensed a sudden movement in the air above her, and she thought she had caught the flash of blue feathers.

Valor landed on the assassin with a loud screech, digging his talons ferociously into the Noxian's back. He let go of Quinn with an angry shout of pain and surprise, spinning around as Valor flapped his wings wildly. Quinn crumpled heavily onto the floor, her vision lurching as she drew greedy breaths through an aching throat. Coughing and stumbling, she ran – back into the dark bowels of Noxus' tunnels.


	25. Mourning Mists

Mourning Mists:

They were wailing again – loud, not-quite-human shrieks and phantom cries that hung in the air for far longer than was natural. The sound pierced the air like needles, and the hairs rose unbidden on the back of Yorick's neck. The very Isles seemed to be screaming as well, and the dirt beneath his feet shook almost imperceptibly. Somewhere on the island, Hecarim and the rest of the murderous wraiths of the Ruined King were preparing for their assault on the mainland. Soon, they would all ride out with the Black Mist at their heels and leave the Isles undefended.

It was the very eve of the Harrowing, and clammy fog roiled around his ankles, lapping at his legs like hungry dogs. The tendrils of frigid mists crawled up his body like reaching fingers, but as always, they recoiled from the dull light of the Tears of Life hanging around his neck.

Yorick readjusted his hold on the shovel in his hand, steeling his resolve for the long day ahead. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could just see half-formed shapes beginning to move like shadows at the very edges of his vision. His task today would be long and arduous – as it was every year on the Harrowing. The frown on his face deepened, and his lips curled downwards.

"Come then, damn you," growled Yorick Mori, and his voice was like the low grating of shifting tombstones. "I can wait."


	26. Worries

Worries:

Riven was silent as she wrapped the last of the bandages securely around Yasuo's left shoulder. He winced as she pulled it tight around the web of angry red gashes that ran up the entire length of his left arm. She had pulled it with more force than he thought was necessary, and a quick glance at her expression confirmed that she was still upset; her lips were pressed together into a thin line, and she kept her red-amber gaze securely on her handiwork.

"There," she said stiffly once she had finished, leaning back and setting the roll of bandages to one side. She made to stand, but Yasuo reached out with his uninjured hand and held her gently by the wrist. She turned to face him, looking as though she wanted nothing more than to pull her hand out of her grip, but settled for glaring daggers at him instead. Yasuo rose slowly from the chair in which he had sat, standing face-to-face with her.

He wanted to explain it to her again – to tell her that the shark had simply caught him unawares, and that he had not been underwater for very long before the rest of the men had cut him loose from the tangle of netting – but there was something in the tense lines of her face that told him that whatever his excuse would be, it would not be enough for her. Even now, he could not shake the sight of her from his memory: deathly pale and as still as a statue as she waited at the docks for his boat to return. Neither of them were any strangers to blood, but even she had stiffened at the sight of his mangled arm; undoubtedly, it would be some time before he was well enough to return to sea.

His right hand rose to cup her face as tenderly as he could, but her face remained as stony as ever, even as he brushed a strand of ash-white hair out her eyes.

"I'm sorry," he muttered finally, tracing the outline of her jaw with his thumb.

Riven looked at him for a long time before she spoke, and he was so close to her that he could see the small flecks of gold in her amber eyes as they flitted over his features.

"For what?" she asked slowly, her gaze narrowing slightly as though she were suspicious.

"I was stupid and careless, and I…" He swallowed, finding that saying the words was harder than he figured it would be. "I made you worry."

The steeliness of her expression seemed to crack there, and her bottom lip wavered for the briefest of moments. Pulling her hand out of his grip, she ran slightly-trembling fingers over the bandages that now covered his left arm. Burying her fingers into the long locks of his hair, she pulled him closed and kissed him desperately. Yasuo almost sighed with relief into the kiss, holding her body as close to her as he could until he reluctantly let her pull away.

"I know you don't think I worry about you," she murmured, resting her forehead against his. "And I know that I shouldn't. But I do. And today, I…" She cleared her throat, glancing down away from his eyes. "Today, I was scared. Scared about just how worried I was." She closed her eyes, and when she spoke, he only just made out her voice. "I… I thought I lost you."

The sound of her voice – so vulnerable and so unlike herself – drove a sharp pang into Yasuo's chest that was more painful than the dull throb of his left arm. He pulled her back into his arms, resting his face against the crook of her shoulder to hide the trembling of his own lips as he muttered his next words into her skin.

"I'm not going anywhere."


	27. Snowballs

Snowballs:

It was Riven's second Snowdown festival with Yasuo, and though she had been to a handful of such Ionian celebrations before, it was a different feeling altogether now that she had someone to share them with. They walked along the busy streets of the little town, admiring the icy decorations that sparkled in the flickering lights of paper lanterns. Her arm was linked with Yasuo's, and the constant brush of his shoulder against hers kept a pleasant warmth alight in her stomach. The two of them walked slowly through the crowds, stopping every so often to admire a particularly skillfully-crafted ice sculpture, or otherwise try some more of the Snowdown sweets the vendors sold. She already had an almost-empty box of candied chestnuts that she had shared with Yasuo, and her fingers were sticky with sugar.

"Look," said Yasuo suddenly, pulling her gaze away from a roaring dragon carved from ice with a slight tug of his arm. Her eyes followed the point of his finger to where a man stood surrounded by squealing children, holding something she could not make out in his arms.

"What is it?" she asked, her interest slightly piqued.

"Let's find out," said Yasuo with a grin; abandoning her where she stood, he wove his way gracefully through the throngs of excited children. Riven watched – a slight curve to the end of her mouth – as he talked quietly with the vendor for several seconds before returning to her, seemingly cradling something in his arms.

"What was it?" she asked, tilting her head to try to get a better look. She only just managed to hold her hands out in time as Yasuo tossed what seemed to be a ball of cotton at her. She caught it nimbly, and to her horror, realized that it was that it was alive and moving. Whatever it was, it was about the size of a melon – and just as round – with black eyes like buttons and small horns that curled from the top of its head.

Riven held the creature securely at arms-length as it purred cheerfully at her and licked greedily at her fingers. It was very cute – even _she_ could see that much – but it seemed capable of doing little else besides looking at her with a tongue that lolled out happily. It was like holding a ball of wool, and she could feel its quick little heartbeat through its fur. To her dismay, the little creature began to squirm impatiently, as though it wished to escape from her hands and run up her arms. It squeaked energetically, and Riven looked around for help as it redoubled its efforts – she did not want to have to throw it far away from her.

She must have looked as uncomfortable as she felt, because she heard Yasuo chuckle beside her, and she shot him a glare over her shoulder; one of the little creatures was perched on his shoulder, tugging animatedly at a strand of his hair with sharp little teeth. He seemed infinitely more at ease than she did, and he scratched the top of its head with a finger. It made a sound of contentment and rubbed itself affectionately against his dark hair.

"He says they're called poros," he said as the little creature moved from his shoulder to the top of his head. "He brought them from the Freljord."

So it was from the Freljord – that explained the color and the thickness of its fur, at least. She had never been to the Freljord, but she had heard tales of the strange creatures that lived there: yetis, talking bears, phoenixes made of ice – and now, poros, evidently. Riven gave a short cry of alarm as the poro wriggled its way free unexpectedly, scurrying up her arm before she could catch it. It leapt from her arm to her shoulder before finally leaping to the top of her head, moving far quicker than she expected it to. Once it had found its balance on her head, it dug its little feet into her skull and laid down comfortably.

"Maybe it thinks your hair is snow," said Yasuo, with a voice that was clearly strained from holding back laughter.

"Be quiet," growled Riven as the poro settled happily in her hair.


	28. Peppermint Kisses

Peppermint Kisses:

"Ekko. Hey, Ekko. Look what I found."

Ekko tried his best to ignore the strident voice that came from behind him; he knew better by now than to indulge Jinx every time she asked for his attention. True, it had worked on him the first couple hundred times, but he had learned from all of them.

"Not right now, Jinx. I'm busy," he responded dismissively, his eyes not moving from his Z-Drive. It had gotten damaged in a supply run two days ago, and he had only just found the free time to fix it now.

"It's really cool this time, I _promise_."

"Just give me a minute, please," he said tightly as he tried to concentrate; the Z-Drive was an incredibly sensitive device, and any sort of movement would-

"Come _on_ ," she whined, and he only just managed to stop his hand from slipping as she slapped the back of his arm.

Once his heart had stopped pounded, he let out a long exhale. He sighed resignedly as he took off his goggles. Rubbing his face with his hands, he turned around in his chair to face her.

"What is it now?" he asked tiredly.

Jinx was rocking restlessly back and forth on her heels, her hands hidden securely behind her back. There was an unnervingly wide grin on her face, and her pink eyes were twinkling mischievously.

Ekko nearly fell backwards out of his chair as her right hand suddenly shot out, dangling something over his head. He opened one of the eyes he had closed in anticipation of a firecracker, looking up at what it was she held. It was a small branch of mistletoe that was so wilted and sad-looking that it hardly could have been called a plant at all. It took him a moment before he registered what it was, and before he could say anything, Jinx had already planted a fervent, peppermint-flavored kiss against his mouth.

"Happy Snowdown!" she said cheerfully once she had pulled away. Before he could find his voice again, she was already skipping away happily, humming a tuneless ditty to herself. Ekko remained froze where he stood, struck dumb by the ghost of her kiss playing on his lips.

"But… It's not even Snowdown yet."


	29. Shadows and Rain

Shadows and Rain:

It was raining in Demacia. It never rained. That was one of the many reasons it was called the City of Sunlight. Down among the paved whitestone streets, narrowed eyes cast suspicious glances up at the gloomy skies overhead. Irritated lips muttered ancient curses, and she could hear them whispering under their breath. After all, rain was for Noxus – not Demacia.

She was far more used to the rain than the rest. More used to inclement weather than most. But still, the strangeness of it did not escape her. Rain brought only ill moods and even worse omens with it in Demacia. With swift, confident strides, she wound her way back to the apartment she shared with the golden-haired girl. She shook her hair out and hung her cloak up to dry, hesitating for only a moment before she unlocked the door to her room as quietly as she could.

He was already standing there, little more than a shadow among the rest of them that lingered in the corners. Somehow, she already knew he would be there. She had guessed it from the very first cloud she saw in the sky that morning. Maybe he had brought the storm with him. Whatever it was, she would not ask him why he was here now. It was better off if she did not know.

A flash of white lightning illuminated the room suddenly, and she saw him clearly. He was a thin silhouette against the faded blue of her wallpaper. In the light, his yellow eyes were even more like a hawk's than usual. Then it was gone, and his shape was upon her. Warm breath like sweet milk washed over her face, and she closed her eyes momentarily. There was a flutter in her stomach at how right it felt to have him so close. Even when he knew he should not be here. His hands were on her waist with a possessive tightness, and they were already stumbling backward towards her bed before either of them had said a word.

"I can't stay long," he muttered finally, moving away from her damp hair and back to her mouth. Her shirt slid off bare shoulders, and she shivered at the cold air. She pulled him closer, digging her fingers into his long hair. She could feel him through his clothes, hungry and tense against her.

She felt the movement of his lips against hers even as his fingers trailed up the back of her thighs like curious spiders. There was vicious pull. Then another. And then she gasped at how much his need mirrored hers.

"You don't have to."

…

It was not much later before he slipped out of her bed as silently as he would draw one of his knives. There was little more than a whisper of sheets as he sat on the edge of the bed, as still and as pale as a marble statue. She knew he would be gone soon. Gone to do whatever it is he had come to do in Demacia in the first place. It was not the first time he had found himself in her bed while on a mission.

But this time, she had been waiting for him to leave. She shifted, and he stiffened as he felt the motion in the sheets. Her fingers landed on one of the many scars that decorated his back. He flinched, before he relaxed into the contact.

"I have to go." His voice was cold. Smooth. Like the edge of a knife.

She sighed. Her golden eyes shone for a moment before she closed them and settled back against the pillows.

"I know."


	30. The Price of Duty

The Price of Duty:

Katarina leaned with her arms resting on the stone railing of the balcony, looking out in the direction of the horizon. The glare of the setting sun was surprisingly bright, but Garen was almost glad for it; it would hide the details of her face from him, which would make it easier to look at her without the familiar ache in his breast. Despite the flare, he could see that she wore a backless dress of a deep red that – in his eyes – still paled in comparison to the vibrancy of her hair; it had been curled stylishly, and it fell in elegant curls down the bare skin of her back. She was framed by the sunset, and the image of her – set against the backdrop of a city that stretched from one edge of his vision to the other as though she ruled it all – sent fresh agony into his chest.

Back through the almost-closed door behind him, the ball was in full swing – though he knew that their mutual absence would not go unnoticed for very long. He could still hear laughter and the music, though it was muffled almost to the point of silence. Instead, the quiet whistling of the wind and the faint flapping of banners were the only sounds around them. He had followed her outside – almost without fully meaning to – but now that they were alone, he could not find the words in him to speak to her. He lingered for a moment by the door, truly uncertain for the first time in months. His feet propelled him forward without his prompting, and he took his place beside her, resting his palms on the cold stone of the railing. He had come far closer than he had planned, and his fingers rested mere inches away from hers. Still, he could not bring himself to look at her, and he settled instead for surveying the city below them in silence.

If he could have made it so, he would have liked that instant to go on forever. In that moment, there were no borders – there was no Demacia and no Noxus, just two fools who were so in love with each other that they did not know how to say it. He thought that perhaps silence was the best way to say it, and Garen was content to let it speak for him. They were not afforded such private moments anymore; the rumors made it difficult to even be in the same room together without countless pairs of eyes constantly glancing back at wherever they stood.

"Do you love me?"

Garen paused, and he became aware again of how close her hand was to his; he could brush her fingers with his own if he only extended them slightly. It had been a lifetime since he had heard her so uncertain, and so afraid – her voice was hardly above a whisper, and had he not been standing so close to her, he might have missed it. He looked at her out of the corner of his eyes, but the light made it difficult to make anything out beyond the sharp line of her scar.

He noticed that a slight trembling had begun in the tips of his fingers, and he curled them into a tight fist to hide the motion. Then he exhaled – more uncertainly than he would have liked – before looking into the sunset, as though he could convince himself that his eyes stung only because of the glare.

"If you would let me."


	31. To Part

To Part:

Yasuo tried his best not to look at her as he packed his things.

It was no easy task, given the intensity of the glare he could feel prickling at his back like sunlight. But he had made up his mind – and though she had come closer than he had given her credit for – not even Riven could shake his resolve. After all, to refuse a direct invitation from the Council of Elders – especially now that he was certain that they were in fact keeping track of both his and Riven's whereabouts – would be folly. And though he had his own reservations about returning to the heart of Ionia, the fact that they had summoned him through a letter, and had not simply dragged away in the middle of the night gave him hope that he would not be executed once he stepped foot in the capital.

Not immediately, at least.

With the rest of his belongings secured, Yasuo straightened. He did not turn around immediately, as he knew that Riven was still watching him from the corner of their bedroom, her arms crossed and with the same fearsome expression on her face that had been there when he started packing. But as he tied his traveling pack tight, he heard her footsteps suddenly come closer.

He had expected angry words, or perhaps one of her fingers jabbing painfully into his chest as she warned him against going for the hundredth time that day. He had even half-expected her to take hold of his arm and pull him around to face her, and was prepared for when she did. But what he had not expected her to do was to pull him close to her, kissing him so hard that he could not breathe. It took him by surprise, and he was surprised at how fervent she held him to her. But then he closed his own eyes as he kissed her back, trying to put all his emotions into the kiss – all his own hesitations over what he was about to do and more importantly, his wordless promise that he would return in one piece.

"If they so much as touch you," she growled through clenched teeth once she had pulled away, and her red eyes were alive with a resolution that danced like wildfire. "I swear I'll burn this whole fucking island down."


End file.
